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Legends of Vorandiel
While all the Returned are subject to rumor, Vorandiel's shadiness and eccentricity make him subject to particularly sensational tales. As word of mouth spreads, rumors spiral out of control into fantastical yarns. They're more than just rumor...they're legends! Did any of these things happen? Who knows? Memory Unclouded (April 2016) In a shabby lean-to along Solace's outskirts, a man robed in brown stirred restlessly atop a bed of hay. Metallic instruments hung from hooks, clinking gently together in the faint breeze. Suddenly, the man screamed. Vorandiel shot up from his slumber, gasping in a cold sweat as his heart raced. He smiled, then sighed in relief as his pulse calmed. "I'm remembering again," he muttered to himself. It was coming back to him in bursts. He grabbed flint and tinder to light a candle. As the light flickered to life, he took his case, dumped its contents into the dirt, and snatched the stack of loose pages and parchment pieces that had been among his possessions. Vorandiel flicked through the documents quickly, extracting a page from the stack every few moments and laying it flat on the ground before him; then another, and another, and another... He was piecing something together from memory. But what? Piece by piece, he laid out each page until the stack was no more. Every loose page was laid out before him. Then he saw it. A single letter was scrawled in a seemingly random location on each page. Laid out, however, he could mentally see lines and circles that could be drawn to connect them. Vorandiel ran his finger through the dirt, spelling out each letter: P-A-R-L-I-A-M-E-N-T - C-O-N-V-E-N-E-S - A-T The rest was a location with a date and a time that was over a year ago, mere days before Vorandiel's death and Return. Yes, that was consistent with the memories that had begun piecing themselves back together in his mind. His eyes were then drawn to the center of the circle he had mentally drawn across the strewn papers. He took the candle and tilted it over the circle's center. Was he acting on a hunch or a distant memory? The wax dripped down onto the parchment. Nothing happened. Not at first, anyway Then, as the heat spread, the parchment began to change. Staring back at Vorandiel was the illustrated face of an owl, wings outstretched, its body encased in a triangle. This was a message to him; the old version of him, at least - the version that hadn't gone mad, the version that wasn't interested in questionable self-enhancements... ...the version that, before death, had grown deeply entangled in dangerous secrets. Vorandiel took a deep breath. He felt a calming serenity wash over him as more images came to mind. Reaching out mentally, he picked up each memory and began the long process of reassembly. His fingertips traced slowly over the documents before him. "Now the real work begins," the doctor whispers. Mindful Meditation (July 2016) For once, the doctor's "office" was uninhabited. Rather than research or experiment, Vorandiel found himself on a rocky outcropping on the other side of the forest. He was meditating, of all things. The doctor's research had brought him to a strange crossroads. Channeling had proven to be a far more intimate science than surgery. To perform the former, Vorandiel had to take whatever he wished to channel and let it move within himself. This had started to take a mental toll on him when he began dabbling in the manipulation of endocrinical substances within the blood to create altered mental states: adrenaline, dopamine, ghrelin, beta-endorphins, and countless others. He had seen these names in the forbidden tomes of his secretive brotherhood long ago, but now he could feel them all coursing through his body and recognize each one by name. The doctor *needed* this research to continue. There was enough evidence to prove the general hypothesis, but what he needed was consistent results that could be formalized into a spell and used to aid allies or hinder enemies. It was the mind of his enemies that intrigued Vorandiel the most. He was tired of playing defense at each Gathering, and felt more satisfaction with the fantasy of controlling his enemies rather than slaying them...and now that fantasy had a chance of being real. Vorandiel opened his eyes and grinned. With his mind cleared, he stood up and returned to his office and scribbled down a few more notes for his research logs. "The next Gathering of the Returned approaches. Next week I'll..." The doctor trails off as his eyes glance at a long parchment piece posted on the tree next to him; A parchment piece with his schedule written on it, A schedule that had the latest Gathering listed for the weekend that had just ended. "Well, shit." The Gathering probably wasn't too eventful, he hoped. The Sea Dog (September 2016) "Ha! I won't be missing the Gathering this time!" Vorandiel huffed smugly to himself as he strode down the road to Port Frey. Having forgotten to attend the last one, the doctor was arriving at the Port several days early to ensure that he wouldn't miss it. Later on, after setting up a quiet space to study and settling in, Vorandiel wandered over to one of the Port's quieter drinking establishments to pass the time. He was in the midst of an animated, albeit one-sided, discussion with a fellow patron. "...so you see, my good fellow, secretion of oxytocin is regulated by the electrical activity in the hypothalamus. These cells generate action potentials that propagate down axons to the nerve endings in the pituitary gland." His conversational partner stared blankly, glanced into his mug, then rose from his stool to relocate himself several stools away from the doctor. Vorandiel frowned. "Aye, mate," a gruff voice assured him from the shadowy corner of the pub. "Not all dems gonna appreciate yer smarts, lad." From the shadows, stepped a tall, hairy man in a long coat with a face weathered by years at sea. Vorandiel reckoned that if he were ever to write a dictionary of slang, he'd include an illustration of this man next to the phrase "sea dog". "Next one's on me, laddie!", the salty old buccaneer announced while exchanging a wordless glance with the barkeep. When Vorandiel looked back at the counter, a new mug sat in front of him frothing over. The doctor's gaze wandered back and forth between the old sea dog and the barkeep. Something clicked. "Wait...I've read about this." Vorandiel pondered aloud. "Is this one of those things where you give able-bodied men drugged drinks, then conscript them onto your ship?" The buccaneer sighed and exchanged another glance with the barkeep. "Alas, matey," he growled in defeat with a shake of his head, "yer just too smart fer us..." "Don't feel discouraged!" Vorandiel assured with a smug grin as he took a hearty bite into a turkey leg; pausing to chew, swallow, and bask in satisfaction. "I've made many people feel that way." Seconds later, the pub began to blur and spin around him. The doctor stumbled off of the stool and leaned against the counter for support. Vorandiel pondered things for a moment, then let out a long sigh. "It was the turkey, wasn't it?" "Aye. It was." Vorandiel slumped helplessly to the floor as the pub faded into darkness. When the doctor regained consciousness, he was standing in a shed in the Port's outskirts. In front of him laid the old buccaneer, unconscious and resting in an empty bathing tub. More troubling, though, was the blood dripping from Vorandiel's gloved hands. A scalpel rested between the fingers of one hand, and a fresh human kidney rested in the palm of the other. "This normally works the other way around." Vorandiel mumbled nervously as he flipped the old sea dog face-down and attempted to awkwardly reinsert the harvested kidney. A few minutes, and some channeling magic, later, and the captain was as good as new; albeit still unconscious. Vorandiel glanced around uneasily and stepped out of the shed before sprinting for a quick escape. He skidded to a halt when he stumbled into a young urchin scavenging through the rubbish bins. "Dear boy, what day is it?" The doctor inquired. "Twelfth of the month, sir," the boy explained. "Nice and quiet now that the Gathering of the Returned has ended." For a moment, Vorandiel stood in silence before snapping. "MOTHERFU~" Beatrice and the Mumbling Man (April 2017) She never understood why witches were so hostile in stories. As far as Beatrice was concerned, becoming a wizened crone had been a wonderful lifestyle change. Her hut in the woods was nice and quiet. Plus, with no spouse, children, or social obligations, Beatrice found herself with ample time to pursue her passions. In the mornings, Beatrice would rise with the sun to gather berries and check her traps. A share of what she caught and gathered became breakfast. Anything left was neatly laid in cloth and wrapped for later. As noon approached, Beatrice would paint, sculpt, or indulge in whatever creative exercise she liked. After lunch, she would stroll from the woods to Port Frey to peddle her crafts. She sold her modest wares for a pittance -- it was more about personal satisfaction of the sale than turning a profit. When sunset neared, Beatrice packed her effects and began her trek back to the woods. Several months ago, however, she had begun taking the long way back to her hut. Though her route varied, she always took care to stop at a particularly old, gnarled tree in the woods. That's where she'd visit the Mumbling Man. Beatrice first stumbled upon him on one of her walks the evening after the Battle of Port Frey. The brown-robed man was sprawled out among the exposed roots of the old tree. His torso was gashed open by massive claws and green, darkened veins were plainly visible beneath sickly pale skin. In spite of all this, he continued to draw breath. The man didn't respond when she approached and offered aid. Once close, Beatrice could hear the barely-conscious man mumbling under his breath. He held one hand to his wound while the other held a tree root in a feeble, trembling grip. Figuring him not long for this world, Beatrice sat down beside the man to keep him company in his final hours. "W-w-ater" Beatrice had dozed off, but a faint and raspy, whisper snapped her back to attention. With a nod, she reached for the gourd tied to her hip and tilted the top to the Mumbling Man's lips. His mumbling stopped just for a moment to sip. As he drank, Beatrice noticed that the wound had healed completely. The blighted veins, however, had spread further. "Poison?" Beatrice inquired and was answered with a feeble nod. The crone reached beneath her shawl and withdrew some leftovers wrapped in cloth. She mashed the berries and offered the mush to the Mumbling Man, who ate with difficulty. "T-t-hank..." the man trailed off before resuming his mumbling. After that encounter, Beatrice made sure to stop by each day to check on him. She arrived with leftovers from her breakfast and whatever attempt at an herbal remedy she had made that day. Day after day, month after month, the Mumbling Man was there. He never strayed from his spot at the tree and never ceased his unintelligible mumbling, save for when he ate, drank, or slept. Then, one day, he was gone. Beatrice arrived at the clearing and found the space at the tree's roots unoccupied. She glanced around, and saw the Mumbling Man hobbling down the trail. When she drew close, she noticed he was staring at the ground as if retracing his steps. A moment later, he plunged his hand into a bush and withdrew an old briefcase that had been claimed by months-worth of moss growth. He took a few more steps, reached into another push, and pulled out a wide-brimmed hat. He smiled as he donned the hat. "Do you know how channelers detect poison?" he asked Beatrice abruptly. Beatrice never studied channeling. She gave the No-Longer-Mumbling Man a shrug. "When a channeler detects poison, they channel a small part of that poison into their own bodies", he explained. It seemed like this was the beginning of some longer speech. Beatrice sat down and listened with amusement. "Channeling, however, is merely a manipulation of a supernatural flow of matter and/or energy between living entities", the man went on, "and that flow can go in either direction." It only took a moment for Beatrice to understand where he was going with this. She noticed that his darkened veins were gone. When she figured it out, she nodded for him to continue. "For the past several months, I've been spending every ounce of mana to cast a Detect Poison spell in reverse, channeling the demonic poison out of me drop by drop." Yep. That was what Beatrice figured. "And had it not been for you, I would've died of thirst or starvation long before I finished", he concluded. He bowed his head and tipped his hat to her. "If you channeled it out of you," Beatrice asked, "where did it go?" The man furrowed his brow, he was staring pensively over Beatrice's shoulder. She turned around and followed his gaze to the gnarled tree he had laid beneath this whole time. It's rotting bark was a familiar dark green. The man walked past Beatrice, approached the tree, and ran his hand over the bark while staring down at his feet. His lips formed the words "I'm sorry" before he stepped away and turned back to Beatrice. "Uhhh..." Vorandiel paused, "...thank you!" The doctor began sprinting down the trail before Beatrice had a chance to react. "Where are you going!?!" the crone shouted. "I HAVE A GATHERING TO ATTEND!!" Vorandiel's voice echoed in reply. Science and Visions (July 2017) The doctor froze at the forest's edge, silent save for his cloak's fluttering in the breeze. Vorandiel swallowed -- this was the forest where he had spent his "prolonged absence." Being so close to his long, painful near-demise wasn't sitting well with him. But this was no time for him to hesitate. With a large Returned contingent setting out for Edge in mere hours, the doctor needed to be quick. Vines had brought him back here. Long cords of plant life were perfect for extending channeling contact into man-made structures and Vorandiel didn't want a repeat of Anitoc. He recalled seeing some long ivy when leaving this forest and decided to act quickly. Clenching his fists and nodding in determination, he stepped into the woods. Unfortunately, the doctor's determined spirit wasn't substitute for navigational ability. Covered in twigs and loose foliage, a panicked Vorandiel sprinted through the forest. How long had he been wandering? Hours? Days? Had the contingent long since departed? All he knew was that it was dark and every part of the forest resembled the last one. "Perhaps you are lost because you know not what you truly seek..." a feeble, gravelly voice intoned. The doctor halted in his tracks and wheeled around with surgeon saw in hand. He stared blankly at the bearded, emaciated man before him. "Wha? No...I found the vines I needed within my first few minutes in here", he replied gesturing to the thick bundle of ivy slung over his his shoulder. "I'm just trying to leave the forest!" "To 'seek' is not to merely find an item or destination, my friend." The hermit continued as he gestured for Vorandiel to follow. Having no better ideas, the doctor gave a non-committal shrug and ambled along. The two sat together on the dirt floor of the hermit's fire-lit hut. They spent an eternity in awkward silence as the hermit boiled tea on the fire and divided the contents between two clay cups. Another silent eternity passed as they sipped. "You may be looking for an exit", the hermit finally began, "but it is NOT what you seek." Vorandiel shot him an irritable glance from across the fire. His time with the Returned had opened his mind a bit, but his patience for cryptic, mystical platitudes remained limited. "What I mean to say," the hermit continued, sensing the doctor's impatience, "is that the vines and Edge are, in your mind, obligations. They are duties you feel bound to, but not goals you seek fulfilled." The doctor raised an eyebrow. The hermit wasn't wrong, but it was none of his damn business either. "Fine. You've piqued my interest." Vorandiel conceded. "I'm sinking further and further into the political and theological quagmires that the Returned seem to create. My research is at a standstill, and I don't even know *why* I do research anymore!" The hermit flashed a near-toothless grin, nodding as the doctor continued. "My other aspirations are by the wayside. The Parliament hasn't contacted me, the Nadine Empire grows in power with Unity, and every lead I pursue on investigating the Returned/Mist phenomenon is a dead end!" "Answers! I seek answers and they elude me!" Vorandiel concluded, punctuating with a last sip of tea. The hermit nodded again. "What you seek, my friend, is...insight...and insight is what I can share with you." The doctor narrowed his gaze as he jabbed an accusing finger at the hermit. "Oho! Let me guess. This is the part where you offer me some hallucinogen so I can have some faux-spiritual experience while soiling myself on the floor of your hut?" The hermit's peaceful smile fell into a look of concern. "My friend...I thought you understood....you...didn't realize?" The hermit's gaze fell to the doctor's emptied cup. Vorandiel's eyes darted back and forth between the hermit and the cup. He chuckled sheepishly. "Believe it or not, this isn't the first time I've made the same mis-" The hermit was gone. So was the hut and the forest. The universe itself melted away before Vorandiel's eyes. Helix chains of fractal rainbow sprung from nowhere and spiraled everywhere. Space and time unfolded. And unfolded. And unfolded. And unfolded. "YOU WANT ANSWERS, DOCTOR?" the hermit's voice echoed from afar like a distant horn. "SEEK THEM!" The doctor folded his arms and glowered at the indecipherable fractalverse. Answers were hard enough to find in reality, how in damnation was he supposed to find those answers in a chemically-warped version of his own mind? His own mind! The doctor thought for a moment. "He didn't have an alchemy lab, so the hallucinogen is likely organic and plant-based." Vorandiel muttered aloud. "It's been through my bloodstream and entered my brain, altering its chemistry." The ever-unfolding helixes continued their spread and closed in on the doctor, forming various shapes. Fractal shrikes and owls began swooping down to claw at his subconscious flesh. The doctor fell back, threw up his arms, and tried to think quickly. Even in its organic form, the hallucinogen was too complex for him to manipulate via channeling without alchemical study. But Vorandiel knew his own body, and the substances therein. The doctor's body relaxed as he allowed himself to drift into deep thought, focusing inward on the chemical ebb and flow within. The cosmos fell silent. Vorandiel opened his eyes and saw a single fractal figure. It sang in a discordant howl as it floated in the center of an endless, multi-colored void. ENERGY LINKS US ALL CONSCIOUSNESS LINKS US ALL "Huh?" ENERGY LINKS US ALL CONSCIOUSNESS LINKS US ALL Vorandiel tried to ignore the "singing" as he focused on the flow within. He felt himself calming as he channeled chemicals back and forth between his mind and various glands, but the voice and visions persisted. ENERGY LINKS US ALL CONSCIOUSNESS LINKS US ALL The doctor let out a relaxed sigh, gazed up at the figure, and answered. "Are you implying that consciousness IS energy?" The figure ceased its mantra, but didn't answer. "I know that there's the soul, and that there is a chemical process in the body. What YOU'RE saying is that there's a flow of energy too?" The figure reached out its arms, forming them into endless rainbow chains that began wrapping around Vorandiel. Shrikes and owls reappeared to psychologically peck at the doctor's mindflesh. "And if that energy is of the body...can it not also be channeled?" This wasn't a rhetorical question. Vorandiel had absolutely no idea if that's how it worked. Regardless, the doctor grabbed a fractal shrike from the air and concentrated. With a frightened chirp, the shrike melted and seeped into the pores of Vorandiel's skin. Grinning, the doctor grabbed the chains around him and pulled hard. As the chains withdrew into him, the fractal void began to collapse. The figure's head snapped back and forth, only to turn to Vorandiel and nod. The doctor cackled as he held out his hand. Helixes spiraled from his palm and formed a doorway in front of him... "Energy links us all! Consciousness links us all!" Vorandiel was shouting as he sprung awake. He was lying face up at the forest's edge as the hermit crouched over him. "That's nice, my friend, but you've been out for days and shat yourself many times. Your trip should've only lasted an hour at most." Days? The doctor's shoulders slouched as he slapped a palm to his face. "Has there been any word from Edge?" The hermit shrugged. "Ask them yourself. I saw some forces returning from up north this morning." Vorandiel pushed himself up, dusted off, and adjusted his hat. "No point now. I'm going to find a change of clothes first." The hermit turned and began walking back into the forest. "And...did you learn what it is you seek?" "Maybe?" The doctor pondered as he stared at his palm. "All I know now is that I have some brains to dissect..." Mind's Eye (August 2017) Space and time coalesced. Countless sparks, each representing a single pulse of mental activity, filled the infinite void. There it was, all before the doctor's eyes: the hidden principles binding all consciousness. "Is sumtin supowsd ta 'appen, seh?" Vorandiel snapped back to consciousness in a cold sweat. His palm was pressed against the forehead of the rather fragrant beggar whom he had offered some copper in exchange for participation in a channeling experiment. "Did you...not feel anything?" the doctor inquired, face falling with disappointment. "Oi I reckon I felt a beet in me stomach," the beggar explained, "but dats jus the grog, it is!" The doctor pulled his hand away and sighed. The underlying principle was so simple, how could he come up with nothing? After an unplanned hallucinatory journey, Vorandiel had formulated the hypothesis that thoughts and consciousness had a physical form as energy in the mind and body -- and, like the life energy he regularly wielded, it could be channeled. The experiment seemed simple enough: the doctor would think of a number or short word, and then channel the energy of that thought into the mind of a volunteer. Thus far, however, his tests were fruitless. "Em oi free to go, seh? "Of course", Vorandiel sighed again and tossed his volunteer an extra copper for good measure. "Thank you again..." The doctor leaned back against the alley wall and slipped a small black notebook from one of his belt pockets, reviewing his notes to double check if he missed anything. He smirked. Scribbled on a dog-earred page was a date and a location: the Gathering of Returned in Solace this weekend. Gatherings, Vorandiel had learned, were a conduit for enemies; enemies that had a tendency to "disappear" or fall in battle with fresh brains intact. Unlike volunteers, there was no paperwork or payment required. And, as every scientist knows, good experiments need a large sample size. This is Not a Story (September 2017) The doctor stood alone in empty Solace streets. He looked down. Ｔｈｉｓ ｉｓ ｎｏｔ ｔｈｅ ｇｒｏｕｎｄ. Ｔｈｉｓ ｉｓ ａ ｒｅｐｒｅｓｅｎｔａｔｉｏｎ ｂａｓｅｄ ｏｎ ｔｈｅ ｍｉｎｄ'ｓ ｉｎｔｅｒｐｒｅｔａｔｉｏｎ ｏｆ ｔｒｉｌｌｉｏｎｓ ｏｆ ｅｎｅｒｇｙ ｐｕｌｓｅｓ. Vorandiel fell through the ground as if it were colored smoke and plummeted into oblivion. Ｔｈｉｓ ｉｓ ｎｏｔ ｏｂｌｉｖｉｏｎ ｅｉｔｈｅｒ The doctor shot up awake in a cold sweat, his hat askew. He sat upright in his bed of reeds inside the shoddy lean-to in the woods he called home. Ｔｈｉｓ ｉｓ ｎｏｔ ａ ｆｏｒｅｓｔ ｃｌｅａｒｉｎｇ. Ｔｈｉｓ ｉｓ ｎｏｔ ａ ｈｏｍｅ. He groaned as his pressed his palms into his face. The more research he did on matters of the mind, the more sleepless nights he had like this. Vorandiel stood up and walked across the clearing to a bowl of water he had left on a tree stump. As he splashed his face, he shot a leery glance at the half-burned tome that had set him on this path -- the tome that even the Nadine Empire had deemed too dangerous to exist. Ｔｈｉｓ ｉｓ ｗｈａｔ ｙｏｕ ｗａｎｔｅｄ, ｄｏｃｔｏｒ. Ｔｈｉｓ ｉｓ ｔｈｅ ｔｒｕｔｈ ｙｏｕ ｓｅｅｋ. Pull the Strings (September 2017) A small hay cart trundled up a winding road. Its drab driver hunched in the seat while a smaller occupant sat on the rear board. Atop the hill rested the sprawling campus of a once-great manor, now dilapidated and overgrown. The manor's sole occupant waited at the rusted gate. An hour later, the wagon descended the hill without its smaller occupant. "I did something wrong, didn't I?" The young passenger and the manor's occupant sat inside a crumbling parlor. A small fire lit the room despite the half-collapsed fireplace. "Well...did you?" the occupant retorted. She was a tall, stout young woman in a dress like a priest's cassock. The woman sipped rainwater from a chipped cup as if sampling the finest imported tea. The silvery visage of an owl glinted above her knuckle. The passenger lowered his hood. He was a pale, scrawny peasant boy no older than seven. The dried tracks of tears shone on his cheeks in the firelight. "Father said I won't amount to anything unless I become strong. Our cattle are strong and I wanted to learn why." The woman took another sip and said nothing. The boy gulped and stared down at his feet. "I put them back together when I finished", he continued, somewhat defensive. "I watched mother sewing all the time and she even stitched a gash on me once when I fell in a quarry..." The tapping of porcelain against the table echoed throughout the parlor and cut the boy off. The woman smiled. "Yes...pity about your father's cattle," the woman trailed off. "But I saw your stitch-work, boy. It was some of the finest I'd ever seen!" The boy's face contorted. He had braced himself for scolding, not praise. "Your mother and father are simple farmers," the woman continued. "They know you see the world through curious eyes and speak words they don't understand..." The boy's gaze didn't stray from his feet. "Your father brought you to me because my family owes his a favor...and he sees potential in you; potential he does not want wasted!" He looked up, smiling weakly. "So you'll train me to be strong?" The woman scoffed. There were trinkets in the bowl next to her teacup. Her hand plunged in and pulled out a small wooden disc with leather cord on either end. "Dear, child. Too many people see the world in twos — one thing or the other; black and white." The woman held out the disc for him. A picture of a bird perched on a branch was painted across the surface. "Here in Nadine, you are either a warrior — one of the strong..." The disc flipped in her fingers. The other side had a cage. "...or an underling — one of the weak..." The boy frowned and stared at his boots again. "...or that's what idiots say, at least." She concluded. The woman smirked. She let the disc fall, grabbed both ends of the leather cord, and pulled taut. The disc spun on the cord's axis, images of the bird and cage alternated rapidly until they seemed to merge as one — telling a single story. The boy looked up and watched in silence for a moment. "So...it's a false choice?" the boy spoke up, unsure of the metaphor. "The choice is this, dear Voran", the woman replied with a grin, leaning closer. "You either waste your life worrying about which side you're on...or allow me to teach you how to pull the strings!" —- Over twenty years and a few deaths later, Vorandiel lies back in a tavern chair with the heels of his boots resting on an unoccupied seat. His fingertips, blackened with dried paint, rotate a wooden disc in hand. He holds up the disc and examines his handiwork. On one side, he painted a small facsimile of the brain and nervous system: the physical reality of the mind. The other side has a rough recreation of the Trahazi "points" of the spirit: the metaphysical reality of the soul. When he pulls the cord, the disc spins between his hand until the two images became one: consciousness. The doctor smirks and watches the disc spin idly. The last Gathering gave him the final pieces he needed to piece together a hypothesis in his mind of how it all worked. Now the tests could begin. Things needed to move quickly. Vorandiel was hearing enough from others to know that a great clash is coming -- a clash to span both physical and metaphysical worlds, and swallow anyone on the wrong side. Fortunately, Vorandiel wasn't concerned with picking sides. He was searching for the strings. The Scalpel (November 2017) Vorandiel began to think he had been a bit dramatic the night prior. The doctor rummaged through some shrubs as the sun rose on the morning after the Gathering's end. Vorandiel swore that his surgeon's tools had landed around here. After all, it *was* where he flung them the prior night after surrendering all his research to the Guild of Academics. Yep, *definitely* dramatic. The doctor spotted the leather satchel wedged between two branches. He grabbed it, and found it empty. His eyes trailed down to the ground beneath the shrub and spotted a glint of steel in a puddle from the prior night's rain. Vorandiel pulled the scalpel from the puddle and examined it. Mud caked both the handle and blade. A small water beetle fled the disturbed handle onto the doctor's finger. He stood there in silence and stared at the tool for awhile. It was beyond usefulness, even by Vorandiel's lax standards. On top of obvious contamination, the landing had snapped the thin blade clean in two. The scalpel was too tainted, too compromised. It would scar and infect whatever it treated -- worse than worthless. Vorandiel kept staring. He opened his hand, let the scalpel roll off his fingers, and watched it fall back into the mud. Tainted. Compromised. Worthless. The doctor let out a long sigh, shoulders slumping. He glanced back at the tavern where he had left his cloak, hat, and case... ...only to turn his back and walk away. Vorandiel didn't care if he was being dramatic. He needed this -- or, at least, needed *something*. Whatever he needed, the doctor's search for it began as he vanished into the morning fog. Physician, Heal Thyself! (December 2017) "I...I look ridiculous..." Vorandiel stared at himself in the pond's reflection. Weeks ago, he had left Port Frey as well as almost all of his possessions and wandered back to the secluded sage he had met once before. Vorandiel's old clothes were cast aside. Instead, he was wrapped in ragged brown cloth and wore a snug necklace with a geometirc trinket — a look very similar to his teacher's. "You told me you wanted to change yourself," the hermit retorted. "So, we're starting with small changes..." Vorandiel didn't immediately answer. He was distracted by the feel of the dirt between his bare toes. "All I suggested was a wardrobe change", the hermit continued. "That look was what you chose." The doctor sighed and nodded. "What now?" "Now...you will begin changing yourself in other ways," the hermit explained. "This is when your real training begins..." --- Weeks passed. Vorandiel felt more centered, but something gnawed at him. Before the Feast, it was a sense of guilt about the part he played in the Shrike's and Nyvious' empires -- but after the Feast, it was *doubt* in that guilt which weighed on him. The doctor had attended the Feast hoping to face some of those he believed to have hurt in the Dark Vision. Instead, he found most of them quite understanding of the circumstances or even respecting his choices. His subversion was not only useful, but key to vital rescue efforts. Go figure. Without the validation of his guilt, Vorandiel was left wondering why in damnation he was out here in the first place. "I consider myself utilitarian in philosophy," the doctor vented to his teacher. "There shouldn't be any reason for me to feel bad about the compromises I've made." "You're right -- there shouldn't be" the hermit answered. "But here you are anyway." The doctor already knew one reason, but didn't want to admit it -- for all of his whining about the Returned, they were the first true friends he ever had. But, no, it was more than just sentimentality. Some of Mieletassa's words from the Feast rattled inside his mind. His thoughts immediately returned to the scalpel and the tools he'd left behind. The doctor smirked for a fleeting moment. Vorandiel stood up and dusted himself off. He grabbed what little he had brought to the glen and stuffed them in his robes. "There's a Gathering soon", Vorandiel explained. "I'm going." "Excellent", the hermit clapped. "I *do* have a life besides attending to your spiritual needs, you know. What are you planning to do?" "The impossible, I suspect." Vorandiel gave a grateful bow to his teacher before vanishing into the brush. The Sea Dog's Lament (May 2018) Somewhere in waters far from Tear, the clouds veil the waxing moon as the sea-scarred bow of the S. S. Foig carves through midnight waters. A towering, grey-haired gentleman keeps vigil at the helm and puffs his pipe in time with the vessel's rise and fall against each wave. Ol' Captain Slasgraw had sailed the tides of the Southern Torrent for decades. Though many a voyage had weathered him into a ragged old sea dog, he'd still take the storms and sea monsters over the strangeness of landlubbers any day. The Returned of Tear only justified his choice further. So it was much to Captain Slasgraw's displeasure when, months ago, a Returned approached him with interest in booking passage. And out of all the Returned, it was one he had encountered before. Because of course it was. The Captain almost hid when he saw that wide-brimmed hat-wearing Returned striding down one of Port Frey's docks towards them. The crew stared and murmured — the man's appearance somehow grew even stranger since the Captain's first encounter with him. "Greetings Captain," the doctor greeted after clearing his throat. "I was hoping to charter pass-" "ABSERLUTLEY NOT!" The crew fell silent; their eyes darted back and forth between their Captain and the doctor. The latter frowned. "Ah, is this about the-?" "Aye!" "Well, I forgive you." "WHA?" "Yes. Drugging me was uncalled for, but I think it's better for us to move on." "Yeh removed me kidney, lad!" "And I put it back in!" The Captain glared. The doctor gazed back and waited. A few moments later, the doctor suddenly closed the distance between them and slipped some card-sized parchment pieces into Slasgraw's hands. The Captain looked down and nodded. "Fine! Say yer piece." The doctor began to speak, but stopped. Instead, he leaned in and whispered his request into the Slasgraw's ear. The Captain listened, then stepped back. A stern silence fell over him as his eyes scanned the doctor up and down. He raised a skeptical eyebrow at the doctor. "This is one of the few crews that makes that route regularly, yes? Through the Southern Strait?" the doctor asked. The Captain nodded, looked back at his crew, then leaned back in towards the doctor. "Tell me, lad," the Captain whispered, "wot sert of man asks to be smuggled into a lawless pert?" "Do you really want the answer?" the doctor retorted, eyes narrowing. The Captain stared down at his hands once more and sighed. "Fer enough, lad," he conceded. "Welcome ab'ard!" That was months ago. Tonight, Captain Slasgraw steadies the helm and runs his eyes across the night shift on deck. Below, their strange passenger slept — tossing, turning, and muttering under his breath. By this point, the crew had learned to leave him be while he slumbered For, lately, Vorandiel had a tendency to whisper of disturbing matters while he Dreamed. Strange Cargo (June 2018) Even compared to the relative lawlessness within the Nadine Empire, Pilferer's Port has a particular reputation. Pirate crews wage an endless proxy war at the behest of noble families and various economic power players, turning an otherwise-cozy port town nestled in the cliffs of Nadine's western coast into a war zone. The Empire's military presence is less interested in stopping the conflict than it is containing it within the town and waiting to see a faction prevail. Survival of the fittest, after all. Sister Allisyon distributes bread crusts and pamphlets to the destitute in the alleys of this urban battlefield. She's a dying breed in a merciless nation clutched in a millennia-spanning obsession with dominance and supremacy. Each day she toils to teach the basics of literacy, arithmetic, and justice to any on the streets who listen. Allisyon does this knowing that the Empire will not see change in her lifetime, or even several beyond that. Yet preserving even an iota of enlightenment and justice in the hearts of the masses is worth fighting for — even dying for. Such is the doomed crusade of the Parliament of Owls. On this evening in particular, Allisyon sits at the alley's edge taking advantage of a rare opportunity for silence. She stares pensively at the western horizon, fidgeting with her polished owl ring glistening in the light of the setting sun. "Aye, ye be the lass Allisyon?" a voice, smooth as gravel and glass shards, inquires. In a single motion, the woman leaps to her feet while whipping out a concealed dagger from a sheath at her boot. She faces a towering man with a sea-scarred visage and wild, wiry silver hair. Behind him sits a large cart, loaded with barrels, pulled by a duo of stocky, unkempt crewfolk. "Got a delivereh fer ye!" Allisyon lowers her dagger only slightly, keeping it pointed at the towering sea dog. "Beg your pardon?" The crewfolk grab a barrel from the cart's rearmost edge, walk it to Allisyon, and lower it gently to the ground. "We be in port ter months end, restockin' and gettin' new business," the towering sea captain growls at the barrel. "If yer not here then, we be leavin' without ye!" Ol' Captain Slasgraw nods at the crewfolk, who wheel the cart away as he strides off in tow. Alone with the barrel, Allisyon leers at it for a moment. She pries the top off with her dagger, then freezes. "You drak bastard!" A tall man wrapped in brown robes lies contorted and cramped inside. He clutches a crumpled, wide-brimmed hat and two halves of a broken tree branch to his chest. Wincing in discomfort, Vorandiel glances up at Allisyon with a sheepish grin. "Um...hello, Allisyon!" "You DIED, Brother Diel!" she hisses through clenched teeth, jabbing her dagger angrily in the direction of the barrel's occupant. "You died abandoning us for a STUPID experiment on yourself that KILLED YOU!" That isn't entirely accurate, but the truth was actually even more incriminating. Instead, he opts to focus on the positive. "I did die, but I also Returned," the doctor explains. "I need you to bring me to Siegeholt so I can tell the Parliament everything I learned on Tear..." Allisyon rubs her chin. Something doesn't add up. "...in exchange for access to the Parlaiment's archives." The toe of Allisyon's boot strikes the the side of the barrel. Vorandiel yelps. "You failed us, Brother Diel! What could you possibly share that could-" "The state of the Game, the machinations of some of its players, and what that might mean for the Shrike's next move..." Allisyon stares at him in silence. Vorandiel waggles his eyebrows and smirks. "Fine!" she concedes. "But you're staying in the barrel!" Homecoming (July 2018) Dozens of masked faces sat in silence. They stared down at the brown-robed, barefoot man standing in the center of a ruined auditorium. Every now and then, one mask would lean in toward another and whisper while the man spoke. Vorandiel, hands white with chalk dust and back aching from an extended smuggling-by-barrel, lectured like his life depended on it. The blackboard behind him was crammed with rough diagrams, circled phrases, crude illustrations, and lines connecting strewn ideas. The Burned Prophecy Gomadon's Ritual Eden's Realm The Realms of Dreaming The Red Dream The Clocktower The Game The Shrike The First of Delfestre The candle-like shards of fallen gods. The death of gods. There were other topics and individuals he ranted about, but the above were written in the largest letters. Once the doctor had finished spewing forth a cocktail of witnessed events, scientific observation, and baseless speculation, he paused to catch his breath. Upon seeing him finished, the silence broke among the masked ones as they murmured among themselves. "Enough!" crowed a figure, sporting ornate feathered shoulders and a decorative mask to match. "Is that all the intel you have the offer, Brother Diel?" Vorandiel put his hat to his chest and bowed. "Indeed it is, Mother Owl." The Matron descended the steps, observed the blackboard closely, then spun to face the doctor. "And you think it's all connected somehow?" Vorandiel nodded. His shoulders slumped, as if deliberately shrinking himself for the Matron. "The Parliament remains unconvinced of this grand connection. However, the intel on this Game and the state of some of the Shrike's rivals is of great value regardless." The crowd murmured with agreement. The Matron extended an outstretched hand toward the doctor. "Now then...you wanted to consult our archives in exchange, yes?" Vorandiel's shoulders ascended to normalcy. He placed his hand in the Matron's, then pulled it away to reveal a slip of parchment in her palm. She glanced at the parchment. Though her mask concealed her face, a sudden balk of her neck was enough to broadcast her confusion to all who observed. "You're looking for WHAT!?!" All formality in her voice had vanished. Vorandiel fanned his palms and flashed a sheepish grin. "Yup. And I'll need to check some ancient naval charts too." Voyage of the Alchemyst (August 2018) By Brother Thasis, 4 ADR The "Voyage of the Alchemyst" is a curious piece of pre-Nadinian literature. Although written in the style of epic poems of the era, detailing a fantastic voyage by the wise alchemist Theothastus, it is now commonly accepted among Parliamentary scholars that "Voyage" is a set of alchemist notes written in code. This is not to say that there is nothing to gain from a literal reading of the text. Far from it! Although "Voyage of the Alchemyst" is sensational in its scenes of combat, creatures, and intrigue, it is oddly specific on matters of geography. In fact, the geography of Theothastus' grand voyage across the "uncharted seas" aligns eerily well with contemporary naval charts. Though the locations are not mentioned by name, the voyage into the "western sea" takes Theothaustus to the Eerie Isles and Northern Tear — if not geographically similar facsimiles. These details have lead some to suspect that the alchemical artifacts encountered on the protagonist's journey — the Jade Moon, the Heart of Gold, the Crimson Elixir, and so on — are in fact real objects. However, more evidence exists in favor of the "encoded alchemist notes" interpretation of the text. The map of Theothaustus' journey scrawled in the original manuscript is very reminiscent in its design of visual equation maps popular with alchemists of the era. Furthermore, terms like "Jade Moon", "Heart of Gold", and "Crimson Elixir" appear in other concurrent alchemical texts. In these other texts, the terms act as nothing more than "placeholders" for hypothetical compounds and elements in theoretical alchemy. Regardless of your interpretation, however, "Voyage of the Alchemyst" is a riveting piece of pre-Nadinian poetic tradition — a masterful bardic work that can be enjoyed even without prior knowledge of alchemical symbolism and encoding practices. ~-~-~-~-~ It was this page that was stuck to Vorandiel's face when he suddenly sprung awake at his desk in the dilapidated archive. Both hands clutched his forehead as he reeled from what he'd just Dreamt. Peeling the paper from his face, the doctor stepped outside and let his bare feet ease into the cool evening soil. He sat down cross-legged in the dirt and stared pensively at the western horizon. Taint of the Past (September 2018) "We're here." There was always an eerie stillness in the air surrounding the woods southeast of Siegeholt. It was as if the wind itself maintained a respectful silence for the countless dead dangling from the trees and rotting on the forest floor. Vorandiel had been here countless times before his First Death — but it was the first time he entered this forest with bare feet and expanded consciousness. Like elsewhere, he could feel the lifeforce of the vast earth flow beneath him. Here, however, that flow was weighed down, ever so slightly, by the sheer volume of death and its despairing circumstances. "Wait you died HERE?" Allisyon whispered. She stared at the doctor. "Brother Diel, you didn't..." "No. It wasn't that." He'd interrupted their studies in the archives and given a disjointed, raving explanation of their goal on the cart ride there. The important part, as far as Allisyon was concerned, was a macabre objective. They were there to find his corpse. Together, the two began a hesitant trek deep into the forest. Allisyon's blood chilled in her veins. She had already known some circumstances around Vorandiel's initial demise, and she was piecing that together with what he'd just denied and the location of his death. "But if you're Returned...doesn't that mean your body Returned with you?" she asked trying to steer her mind to a different subject. "Most of us have been assuming that," Vorandiel explained, "and it's highly likely, however…" He came to a halt and faced Allyson. "On Tear, I witnessed things manifested from the Realm of Dreaming that weren't quite 'real'," the doctor elaborated, "and since then I've hypothesized that the Ritual of the Burned Prophecy created similar manifestations from the Realm of Death." Allisyon nodded. "Conservation of matter — if the Returned's original corpses aren't left behind, it means those bodies were conserved and reincarnated. But if the original corpses remain, then the physical forms of the Returned have another origin..." They were deeper in the forest now. It was Allisyon's turn to stop. "Brother Diel..." The doctor kept walking. "You died performing a surgery on yourself...and your body is out here..." Vorandiel stopped, but still didn't face her. "Does that mean...?" she trailed off. The doctor extended his arm and pushed some overhanging branches aside. The forest opened up into a small clearing with a derelict hut at its center. "Yes," Vorandiel confirmed while staring at his feet. "This is where my lab was." Their steps slowed as they approached the hut's door. The doctor pressed his hand to the door and hesitated. "Inside this hut," he explained, "there's a makeshift surgeon's slab carved from a boulder. My last memory is dying there with crossbow bolts in my back." Allisyon jolted where she stood. Crossbow bolts? THAT detail certainly wasn't in the intel surrounding his death. Vorandiel took a deep breath and shoved open the door. The stench of rotting flesh hit their nostrils harder here than anywhere else in the forest. Rusted surgeon's implements, many improvised from scrap metal and farmer's tools, hung all over the far wall. Against the other wall, diagrams of various anatomical systems were scribbled on ripped scraps of paper and parchment. It was all just as Vorandiel had left it. Except the surgeon's slab was completely empty. Two pairs of shoulders slowly relaxed. Vorandiel stroked his chin in thought while Allisyon looked around the room. "You had recognition within the Legion," Allyson thought aloud while examining a crossbow bolt left behind, "but if you were slain by the Empire's soldiers, you must've fallen out of favor." The doctor nodded. "Of course. I was stripped of rank and, therefore, likely given a pauper's burial as a final shame." He wheeled around to his compatriot. "Where's the nearest potter's field?" Allisyon was distracted by the anatomical sketches on the wall. She compared the sizes of the different diagrams and realized they were likely based on different bodies — young, old, men, women, and so on. Her blood turned cold again. "People came out here to die in peace," she intoned, "and you dissected them." The doctor let out a slow exhale. "Yes." Allisyon was suddenly inches away from Vorandiel's face, teeth clenched and face boiling red. "Society grinds them to nothing," she hissed, "and you carved out the only shred of dignity they had left!?!" Vorandiel stood firm and stared into her eyes. "When I was younger, I allowed the cruelty of this Empire to shape my actions," he admitted, "but I'm not that man anymo-" Familiar faces suddenly surrounded Vorandiel in a momentary flash that spanned eternity. Kenrin, Adhriael, Mieletassa, Tian, and Caera were on their knees screaming in agony while clutching their foreheads in vain; a dead-eyed Coran flailed mindlessly in a puppeteer's approximation of dance; and a lobotomized Gaeden laid motionless on the hut's dirty floor. Then, another materialized alongside them. A tall woman, clad in a long black coat and matching tricorne hat, stood before the doctor with her midsection flayed open down the middle. Molten gold dripped from her exposed ribcage as she glared at Vorandiel and let loose an inhuman roar. Okay, THAT part of the guilt trip was new. Vorandiel blinked and they were gone. He shook his head and sighed. "Well...no. I'm not stupid enough to think I'm magically some new person. Part of me will always be tempted to value new knowledge and testing my skills above all else — even the dignity of sentients." He stared down at his feet and clenched his fists. "And so I vow to fight that part of me...with every last breath." Allisyon remained expressionless. The color in her face normalized as she drew away. "Is that what the stupid barefoot thing's about then?" she quipped with a superior smirk. Vorandiel looked up from the ground to her. smiling weakly. This really wasn't the man she'd trained with all those years ago. Whoever *this* man was had, at the very least, an occasional spark of self-awareness and empathy. The Brother Diel she knew before his death never went without having his head shoved in a book or up his own arse. "Come on then!" Allisyon urged as she kicked open the hut door. "Let's hunt down your rotting corpse." The Sea Dog's Vigil (Sept. - Oct. 2018) The setting sun began sinking into the western horizon. The S. S. Foig weighed anchor while a towering figure in a long coat paced back and forth on the dock. Every now and then, the figure paused to look east. "Cap'in!" the crewfolk shouted from the railing. "We're leavin' NOW!" Ol' Captain Slasgraw shot one last weathered gaze to the east before turning to board his ship. "EXCUSE ME!" The Captain wheeled around and spotted a familiar-looking cart trundling down the muddy road to the dock. When it skidded to a halt in front of him, the driver leapt off and landed on her feet in front of him. "I've come to return some defective goods you've sold me!" (https://twin-mask.wikia.com/wiki/Legends_of_Vorandiel…) Ol' Slasgraw was already smiling. Allyson ran around to the back of the cart and pulled down a barrel. "OW!" the barrel cried out as it struck the ground and rolled towards the captain. Vorandiel tumbled out. His arms were full with his bag, staff pieces, parchment rolls, and a strange parcel wrapped tightly in canvas. "Aye, lass, these things happen," the captain answered with a generous bow. Slasgraw lifted the doctor to his feet and sprinted towards his ship. Vorandiel struggled with his footing as he turned to wave farewell to his old friend. The doctor and the captain reached for a rope ladder flung overboard by the crew and climbed together. "Yeh took yer bloody sweet time, lad!" Slasgraw shouted irritably once aboard. "And you waited," Vorandiel retorted. The two exchanged glares for a moment. "Thanks..." The two shook hands. The captain shook his head. "Aye, sher...we be warm n' fuzzeh now, lad," Slasgraw sighed, "but we gotta long trip to Tear fer us to get sick o' eachover again!"